


Half of an Hour

by xylarias



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Injury, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Swearing, To Be Continued
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:15:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28512522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylarias/pseuds/xylarias
Summary: A multi-chapter, Sterek-centered fic that'll be updated as I continue writing it.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi hello!! the wip of this fic is the longest one I've ever written so I will keep updating! as I write :) more tags will be added as the story goes on, but there are depictions of injury so read at your own risk!

Stiles drums on the small table in front of him, stomping the bass beat with his foot. The woman sitting beside him keeps looking at him disapprovingly, but when Stiles catches her staring, he gives her a wide grin and she slowly turns her gaze back to the window opposite of them.

At least Stiles has the window seat. That's pretty much all positive things there are to say about the bus he's on – the air is filled with the nauseating stench of vomit and baby shit, the babies and toddlers keep wailing and shouting and the seat isn't really that comfortable either. On top of that, the air conditioning unit is broken. Stiles _would_ have taken the train, but he thought that it would've only been difficult to change method of transportation from bus to train to car on the way to Beacon Hills, but now he realizes that he most certainly would've preferred the train over the bus. _This_ bus, anyway.

Yet another baby starts screaming, so Stiles turns the volume up, positioning his earphones on his ears. He taps on his leg, a catchy rhythm no one else can hear. He drinks the ¼ of water that was left in his bottle, then opens a small plastic bag of lollipops. He takes one and offers it to the lady beside him, temporarily taking out the other earbud.

"Want one?" Stiles asks – quite politely, he thinks – and it takes the woman a moment to realize that he's speaking to her. She looks at him as if he'd just asked her to kill someone and throw them out of the window. She shakes her head.

"No thank you," she replies, unable to hide the curling of her lip. She looks mildly disgusted. Stiles shrugs.

"More for me, then," he says, smiling, but the woman doesn't return his smile and instead turns her head away from him, once again.

Stiles continues listening to music.

* * *

Stiles arrives at the bus station, finally, and he immediately sees his dad waving to him in front of his car – he'd promised to drive Stiles the rest of the way to Beacon Hills. Stiles inhales fresh air, cherishing the birdsong from the trees, a cool breeze whooshing past him and ruffling his hair. He waves back and starts walking toward his dad and his car.

Stiles wouldn't have expected that in the coming week he would be fighting for his life. Looking back on this moment, he'd be surprised that he hadn't expected that.

His destination was, after all, Beacon Hills.


	2. Chapter 2

" _It's important,_ " Scott says through the phone. " _And it involves werewolves trying to get to our territory._ "

Stiles groans. "Right. Yeah." He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'll be there. Just... Try your best not to let me get hurt, alright?"

" _Alright,_ " replies Scott. Stiles is about to hang up, but something about Scott's voice tells him that's not all he wanted to say. " _Thank you,_ " he says.

Stiles smiles weakly even though he knows that Scott can't see him. "Yeah," he says. "No problem." That was a lie. Stiles knew that it was going to be very much of a problem in the future, just like it has been in the past.

Stiles hangs up.

* * *

Stiles' only weapon is his old, trustworthy baseball bat. He tries to find his friends, but he fails, as it's dark and he doesn't have a flashlight (his phone's battery is dead). He can hear growling, and it's not as far away as he'd like it to be. Stiles thinks about calling out for Scott, but then he'd give away his location and possibly endanger his life. He doesn't want to die. Or he does, sometimes, but not like this. Stiles makes his way forward, wary, trying his best to move quietly. Unfortunately for him, though, a branch snaps under the weight of his feet. "Shit," he says reflexively, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. _I'm dead_ , he thinks, exhaling.

The rest's a blur. 

Stiles hears the rapid steps of a running werewolf, charging toward him, ready to turn him – or kill him. He knows that he should run, but he doesn't, because it wouldn't matter. The werewolves are faster than he is, and really, the one chasing him is too close already. He can't escape, and he knows that. So he tries to stay quiet, he tries not to disturb the silence around him. Stiles closes his eyes for 10 seconds, then opens them, hoping that he'd see his surroundings better now. He only sees the silhouettes of the branches of trees, and – oh, shit – the glowing eyes of an approaching werewolf. He prepares for the pain, but not well enough. His heart's stuck in his throat, and he doesn't scream, he just takes the pain as the werewolf claws at him and he starts bleeding.

Eventually the werewolf gives up, following its own pack, and when Stiles is sure that it's gone, he uses all of his willpower for the difficult task of standing up. Somehow he succeeds, and his first thought is to rush to the supermarket.

* * *

Stiles walks down the halls of the supermarket, looking for band-aids. Antiseptic medicine. Towels. You know, whatever. Just something to help with his wound. He's trying to be discreet about it, but the instinct to apply pressure on his wound takes over every now and then. He didn't even have time to change his clothes. They're dirty, and a spot on his t-shirt is soaked with blood. Luckily, he also has a long-sleeve button-up with him – so the wound isn't really even visible.

Following the signs hanging from the ceiling, he finally knows where to go. He just has to pass a few aisles and then turn left. He'll buy whatever he needs, then leave the store. No one will notice. He hastily walks forward, softly grunting everytime his body shifts. Two aisles, and he's there. Just a little further. He looks up, making sure that he's not about to, like, bump into anyone, and– oh. Oh. _Oh_ no. It's not who Stiles thinks it is, right? Nope. Not now. He'd recognize the guy anywhere. Fuck. Why now? _Derek_ , he thinks. What are the odds of Stiles running into _him_ today, right here, right now? Stiles turns his head, not even stopping to think why Derek is still in Beacon Hills, even though he's, what, 30? Stiles keeps staring at the floor as he desperately tries to reach the band-aid aisle unseen.

He almost makes it. Almost.

He's just about to steer toward the band-aids, but – Stiles doesn't know if it's Derek's freaky werewolf abilities or just coincidence – Derek turns around right as Stiles is passing him. Derek's eyes widen. Stiles is now intently staring at Derek's shoes. "Stiles," Derek says blankly. It's been years since they last saw each other. Stiles is a year or two older than Derek was when they first met. Stiles exhales, wincing as he slowly tilts his head to look up at Derek. A sharp pang of pain stings his side, and he hisses through gritted teeth, attempting to cover it up as a cough.

"Uh, yeah," Stiles finally replies. "It's me. Yeah. Good to see you." _Shit, you noticed me_ , Stiles thinks, defeated, breaking eye contact. The air is filled with tension.

Silence.

"Yes," Derek says suddenly. Stiles looks up at him, startled. 

"Yes? Yes what?"

"I did notice you," Derek replies. What–? _Oh_. He'd said it out loud. 

"Um, yeah, okay." Stiles frowns. "But wait. How? I mean, I _tried_ to be as discreet as possible–"

"I heard you." He points vaguely at his ears. "You weren't exactly being quiet, you know." Stiles wonders whether he's referring to Stiles' grunts (which he'd thought were quiet) or the squeaking of his wet sneakers. It was raining outside, and Stiles hadn't exactly been properly equipped for weather like that.

"Right. Superior hearing. Should've remembered that." Stiles clicks his tongue, desperately wanting to escape the situation. He clears his throat. "Sooo..." Stiles drawls, wanting to just buy whatever he needs for the wound – which, by the way, is hurting like a _bitch_ – and get the hell out of here. He rocks back on his heels, hands in his pockets.

"Why are you here?" Derek asks, arms crossed against his chest. Stiles raises an eyebrow. 

"Rude, Derek, rude," he says. "Am I not allowed to shop here anymore?" Despite what he'd thought earlier, falling back into the style of speech he'd used to use with Derek is surprisingly easy. His whole demeanor relaxes.

Derek shakes his head. "No, I mean, why are you _here_? In Beacon Hills?" Stiles licks his lips. 

"Oh, um. Yeah. I don't know. I just came to, uh, visit Dad." Derek narrows his eyes at him.

"Are you okay?" he asks gruffly. Stiles laughs dryly. 

"Why wouldn't I be?" Stiles is pretty sure that Derek's eyes briefly stop at his side – his wounded side, that is –, but he could just be imagining things. You never know with Derek, really.

Derek breaks the silence. "You're here... visiting." Stiles nods. "Not because of any supernatural occurrences? Scott didn't call you?" he interrogates Stiles, now half an inch closer than he was before.

"No," Stiles says, "obviously not," he adds with a quiet snort. Derek nods, slowly, eyes still narrowed. He's so not buying it. Stiles inhales slowly, biting on his lower lip to avoid pressing at the wound. It's like an itch, but it hurts.

"Fine," Derek says at last, slightly surprising Stiles. Did he seriously buy it? Derek glances at the aisle behind Stiles, then turns his gaze back to him. 

"Okay," Stiles says slowly, "I'll just. You know. Grab my things and, uh, leave."

Derek nods at him sternly, then turns around, getting back to whatever he was doing. Stiles stares at him for a moment, then does a 180 and heads to the band-aid aisle. He scoops some bandages into his arms, towels and a bottle of antiseptic, hoping that he has enough cash to pay for them. He makes his way to the checkout, studying his surroundings. At least he doesn't see Derek. He's short a dollar, and the cashier's not letting him get away with it. Luckily, the kind old lady next to him in the queue is willing to give him one, so that he's able to buy everything he needs after all. He thanks her, then puts his purchases into a small plastic bag. He'll be home soon enough. The stinging pain in Stiles' side increases, and he tenderly presses a fingertip against the wound under the shirt. It gets moist, and he hisses as he quickly draws his hand back. Blood. Great. 

He limps towards his (Dad's) home – he didn't even know his leg was hurt, too – desperate to reach it as soon as possible. He searches his pockets, feeling them for his keys, hands trembling as he puts the key into the keyhole, turning the knob. "Hey, Dad," he says, trying his best to sound energetic. He's a poor sight, soaked with rain, hair sticking to his temples and forehead, wearing worn jeans and an old flannel, looking tired with dark circles that stand out below his eyes.

"Hey," his dad greets him from the kitchen. It smells like steak and... McDonald's fries. Stiles isn't complaining though. It's only half junk food. 

"I'll go change," Stiles tells him. "Then I'll eat." Stiles sees his dad nodding, so he walks up the stairs, into his room. He walks to his bed and falls on his back, landing on the bed with a heavy _thud_. He rests his head on his pillow, convinces himself that he's going to get up after just one minute to clean his wound and put on a change of clothes, but he doesn't. With every minute that passes, he feels less and less motivated to stand up. His eyes barely stay open, and his arms are laying at his sides.

Eventually, he falls asleep.

* * *

He wakes up to stinging pain and the churning of his stomach. He blinks, staring at the ceiling, hands instinctively flying to his wound. The bleeding has ceased – temporarily, at least – but Stiles doesn't know whether it's because it's getting better or because he slept on his back. Probably the latter. His stomach growls again, and suddenly Stiles remembers that he forgot to eat last night. He gets up, and – _ouch_. He grunts, limping to the bathroom. The wound from yesterday doesn't look good; it's possibly infected already. Stiles sighs, limping back to his bedroom and picks up the plastic bag from the store, bringing it with him to the bathroom. He shakily opens the bottle of antiseptic medicine, squeezing out a random amount of the liquid on a cotton pad, wiping at his wounds with it. He winces. The bottle says that it 'doesn't sting'. Liars. The cotton pad is soon covered in blood, so Stiles throws it on the tile floor, taking another one from the package. 

He hates this. Having to clean up his own wounds with no medical experience whatsoever. He did that when they were teens, too. Although, Stiles has to admit, it beats the alternative: having to go to the hospital and be a burden to both his friends and Scott's mom. Stiles knows that Melissa would take care of him. But that would mean having to trouble her, which Stiles definitely doesn't want to do. After carefully stitching the wound and then hastily putting a band-aid on it, Stiles gets in the shower, washing himself as fast as possible, not wanting to soak the bandage. 

He gets out of the shower, grabs a towel and dries his hair, dressing up in fresh clothes. He's got to admit, it does make him feel a little better. He walks downstairs, only to find out that his dad isn't home. "Dad?" he calls, just to make sure, but doesn't get a response. He's probably gone to work already. Stiles walks into the kitchen, opening the fridge to find a plate with yesterday's food already on it – thanks, Dad –, waiting to be warmed up. Stiles sets it on the counter, preparing himself some coffee. He puts the plate into the microwave, pressing the _+30_ button two times. He waits, watching coffee drip from the machine into the can and listening to the soft, inconsistent humming of the microwave. Stiles is surprised it hasn't broken down yet. 

The _beep beep beep_ of the microwave wakes him from his thoughts, and he opens it in order to get his plate. He touches the plate, and it's still hot, so he decides to pour himself a cup of coffee in the meantime, inhaling its familiar scent. It smells like home, but also long, anguishing days full of stress and, occasionally, panic attacks. He drops two sugar cubes in the dark liquid, then puts precisely one spoonful of milk in the coffee and stirs it. Black, with two sugars and a spoonful of milk. The original. Stiles finally dares to touch his plate, and it's cool enough for him to take it into his hands.

He sits on the kitchen counter, cross-legged beside the cupboard, picking fries from the plate and dipping them into ketchup, then stuffing the fries into his mouth. Ever since he was a kid, he's liked to sit on surfaces not meant to be sat on – kitchen counters, tables, rails, the armrests of both armchairs and sofas alike. He acknowledges that it's not a very mature thing to do, even though at 24, he's considered an _adult_. Nonsensical etiquettes of society, Stiles thinks. He should be allowed to do as much childish things as he wants to, although he would probably be ridiculed for eating with only a fork (elsewhere than home) or – as a right-handed person, that is – wearing his watch on his right wrist (while at a job interview) or wearing odd socks (during a formal occasion). All of which he's done, by the way. All of which he still does.

He finishes the food, placing the plate into the sink and quickly rinsing it with water. He's tired, despite just having woken up, so he decides to go up and dig his 3DS from his backpack and then start playing in need for better ways to spend free time. Not that Pokémon isn't a good way to kill time.

Hours pass, and Stiles doesn't check the condition of the wound. He knows he should. The effect of the cheap band-aid has already started to wear off, and if he wanted to, he could rip it off with ease. But he doesn't. "Stiles," his dad says, waking him from his thoughts as they eat dinner. Stiles' head jerks up. "You haven't touched your food," John states, eyeing him with concern. Stiles glances down, and sure enough, his bowl is still full of untouched soup. 

"Oh," Stiles says. "Yeah. Not hungry," he lies – only partially, though, since he already ate fries and meat –, looking apologetically at his father. His dad's shoulders fall a bit, and Stiles instantly feels guilty. 

"Okay. Yeah, that's alright," his dad says, trying to sound convincing but instead having a deflated demeanor. Stiles gets up, softly hissing at the pain the movement brings him. "I'll save it for you for tomorrow," John promises, smiling weakly.

"Thanks," Stiles says simply, heading back to his room with a glass of water. He swallows a pill of ibuprofen, hoping that it'll give some relief. He doesn't have it in him to go anywhere today, but something tells him that he'll have to, anyway.

And he's right.

Scott calls him, maybe an hour after dinner, telling him that they need to talk. _We need to talk_. His favorite sentence. Fucking yay. He quickly packs the essentials – band-aids, phone, charger, keys, napkins and Tic Tacs – into his bag, slings it over his shoulder and leaves the house with a wave and a 'bye'.

He walks towards the address Scott gave him – a café, one Stiles hasn't heard of before, coincidentally named 'Silver Wolf' –, striding on the street. He's late already. He dials Scott, and after a few rings, he answers. "Hey," Stiles says, out of breath. "I'm gonna be late." Scott sighs.

" _Yeah, we figured_ ," he says. _We_? " _And–_ " Scott begins, "– _you already are_." Well, shit.

"Sorry," Stiles apologizes. "Be there in a few," he promises. Scott mutters a tired 'yeah, see you soon' and hangs up. Why does Stiles always run late?

After approximately ten minutes, Stiles arrives at the café, scanning the area for Scott. Scott waves at him to get his attention, and after ordering a plain coffee, Stiles jogs to the table where Scott, Liam, Lydia and Malia are sitting at. Oh. So that's what Scott meant when he said 'we'.

"Hey," he greets them, pulling a chair from under the table and sitting on it. They look serious. "You good? What's all this about?"

Scott doesn't waste time. "We think that the werewolves from last week are planning an attack," he explains, leaning on the table. The mention of last week reminds Stiles of his wound, and he instinctively puts a hand on it. 

"Okay," he replies blankly and looks around. "But wait," he says. "Why isn't Derek here? Haven't you had pack meetings and stuff?" Scott frowns.

"Stiles," Lydia says. "Derek's not in town," she replies. Stiles opens his mouth, about to speak up, but he decides to allow himself a moment to think and so he shuts it. _Derek's not in town_. What does that mean? What does she mean Derek's not in town? Stiles saw him just yesterday, how is he 'not in– oh. They don't know, do they?

"Oh, yeah," Stiles says. "Right." He clears his throat, drumming the table with his fingers.

"Why did you think he was?" Scott asks. Stiles shrugs in response. 

"I guess I just assumed," Stiles says. "I mean, he's usually involved in this kind of stuff," he says, gesturing vaguely at all of them. He clears his throat. "Anyway," he continues, "what's the plan?" Stiles notices Scott eyeing the others in an odd way, but he pretends not to. Scott opens his mouth, but doesn't get to speak up until a waitress brings their orders to the table on a colorful, decorated tray. Everyone mutters a 'thank you' or a 'thanks', taking a sip of whatever they had ordered.

Scott lowers his voice, leaning forward on the table. "We'll wait for a while. Try to see what they're up to. Strengthen our defenses," Scott explains, and Stiles almost blurts out _What defenses_? Instead, he just nods. Scott smiles, then sighs. "We're gonna need your help. You're okay with that, right?" 

Stiles doesn't hesitate for a second before saying: "Anything." He's used to this. Werewolves, a chimera, a banshee, a hellhound and a werecoyote – yet still they need the human. And for what? So that he can smash in their enemies' heads with, what, a baseball bat? _Bullshit_ , he thinks, but smiles at the others anyway.

Scott sniffs the air once, twice. He briefly knits his eyebrows. "You didn't get hurt in the fight last week, did you?" he asks, reaching for Stiles' hand. Stiles jerks his hand away, pretending to scratch an itch at the back of his head. He hopes that the shower gel he'd used covers the smell a bit, at least. 

"No, no, I'm fine," Stiles assures Scott, grinning half-heartedly. He's more than eager to change the subject. Without thinking, he shifts the conversation to a completely unconnected topic. "So, Liam, how's Theo?" Liam sputters, just barely managing to gulp down his hot chocolate. 

"Theo?" Liam asks, eyebrows raised, eyes wide. Stiles nods. Liam turns subtly red. "I, uh... Why do you ask? From me? It's– It's not like we've been in touch that much or anything," he says, crossing his arms. Malia snorts, and Liam shoots her a sharp glance.

"'Haven't been in touch' my ass," she says, clearly amused. "I can _smell_ him on you," she adds. The shade of red on Liam's face deepens, and he huffs, shrugging uneasily.

"I mean, I guess? We've seen each other a couple of times, but not that often, really – we talk, sometimes," Liam says, licking his lips. Malia laughs, and Lydia's pursing her lips, spacing out.

"I bet you 'talk'," Malia says, shaking her head. "You're really not a good liar, Liam," she says, faking sympathy. Liam rolls his eyes.

"And how are you and Scott?" Liam asks. " _You_ two smell of each other," he says, smiling sarcastically. It's Malia's turn to roll her eyes. She doesn't blush, though. Scott coughs into his fist to get everybody's attention. 

"Back to the matter at hand," he suggests, and Lydia's eyes snap to him, most likely happy to be able to talk about something sensible, rather than Liam's (or Malia's) love life. "We're going to keep you updated, maybe hold some pack meetings. Sound good?" Scott asks, raising an eyebrow in askance. Stiles nods a few times. "If you don't hear from us in, say, two weeks, assume we're either dead or being held captive," Scott says.

Stiles forces a laugh. "I didn't know you'd developed a sense of humor, Scotty," he says. Scott chuckles.

"It's gotten better over the course of a few years," Scott says proudly, offering Stiles a playful smile. Scott doesn't say it, not out loud, but Stiles reads him like an open book. 

_You would've known if you'd been here_ , Scott's eyes say, and that makes a part of Stiles feel empty, lonely, like an outsider. Sure, he's visited, but during the last five years or so, Stiles hasn't been a _part_ of the group, not in the way he used to be. 

"But seriously," Scott continues, "bring backup if I don't call or text you, okay?" 

"Yeah," Stiles assures him. "Yeah, of course," he promises, nodding once again. He sees Lydia staring at him strangely, like she's reading his mind. Stiles' phone alerts him of a notification. Stiles opens it quickly. It's from his dad.

 _> Dinner at 6._

Stiles checks the clock. 5:30. He ought to get going. 

"I gotta go," he tells his friends, distancing his chair from the table. The werewolves and Malia wince at the scraping from the legs of the chair. "Sorry," Stiles whispers, biting his tongue. He grabs his coffee. "You've paid already?" he asks, and Scott nods. Stiles gives him a thumbs-up. 

"Bye," Stiles says, noticing that Lydia is still staring at him as he goes, and he feels as though she's looking straight into his soul, like she knows all of his thoughts – something she'd gotten pretty good at in their time together. "I'll see you."

As Stiles is rounding the corner, a hand on his shoulder startles him, and he jolts. He turns around, suddenly face to face with a face framed by strawberry blonde hair. Lydia. "Jesus," Stiles says, inhaling deeply, hand on his hammering heart. "You scared the shit out of me," he says with a laugh.

Lydia stares. She exhales, slowly, and without a warning, she wraps her arms around Stiles. Stiles gasps with pain as her weight presses at his wound, but he tries to disguise it as coughs. 

"I've missed you," Lydia says into his shoulder, and – although they were never as serious as he'd used to hope they would be – Stiles has got to admit that he's missed holding her close like this, smelling her shampoo and feeling her warmth. Stiles hugs her, shifting just slightly so that the pressure wouldn't be on his wound. 

"I've missed you too," Stiles says, smiling. "It's been a while, huh?" Lydia lets go of him, and Stiles almost sighs with relief now that she's not pressing at the wound anymore. She nods.

"It has," she agrees, smiling fondly. "But I really have missed you, Stiles." Lydia shifts her weight to her right foot. "That's not what I came here for, though." 

Stiles tilts his head. _Oh_? "Should I be offended?" he asks her with a quiet, breathy laugh. Lydia shakes her head.

"I wanted to talk," she says.

"You wanted to talk," Stiles echoes, nervous, struggling to keep his voice even. "About what?" Lydia sighs.

"You haven't... _been_ here that much over the past few years," she states, shutting her eyes, then opening them again. "A lot has happened – not as much as you'd think, but Beacon Hills typical things nevertheless –, and you've missed it. Most of it, anyway." 

Lydia chews on her lower lip. "I guess I just wanted to say that you can talk to me whenever you want." She takes both of Stiles' hands in her own, staring at him as if she's studying something – maybe his expression or his reaction –, _observing_. Stiles blinks. "I know you feel alone," she says finally, looking at him with a sympathetic and ultimately worried expression. "Come talk to me. Send me a text. Anything. Please."

Stiles tries to respond, but she's gone almost as quickly as she came. Stiles just stands there, looking like an idiot with his hands hovering in front of him. Lydia's words ring in his ears.

_I know you feel alone_ , she'd said. And he did. He _does_.

* * *

Even as Stiles gets home, his mind lingers on Lydia's words. Something about them struck him, like she's some sort of mind reader and Stiles the victim. He feels alone, now, most of the time. Sure, he befriended a few people in his time in New York, but they weren't exactly deep-rooted friendships with promising futures, more like study buddies going out for a coffee or two.

As if on cue, Stiles' phone buzzes. He types in his password, then opens the text. It's from Lydia.

> _Talk to me?_

Stiles freezes, just for a second. Then he starts typing, erases it, types, erases. Until finally he settles on saying:

> _maybe later. ill try to be in touch. thx anyway_

He groans and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. No wonder Lydia Martin didn't immediately like him in high school. He was so _stupid_ , for God's sake. So, so _stupid_. He thinks about Lydia's strawberry blonde hair, her beautiful eyes, her soft lips, and he thinks about how he used to be attracted to her. in a way, he still is. But it's a different kind of attracted. There's something else, there. Something Stiles can't put into words.

> _You OK?_

Stiles types, once again erasing it and then rewriting his message.

> _im fine_

Stiles thinks that if Lydia was here, she'd have a doubtful expression. The three dots appear on Stiles' screen, indicating that Lydia is typing.

> _Stiles, I love you, but you really need to talk to someone_

Stiles sighs. He knows he does. But he doesn't _want_ to.

> _yeah i know_  
> _im sorry_  
> _and thanks_

 _..._ says Stiles' phone, and once again, his phone buzzes.

> _You have nothing to apologize for_

Stiles buries his head in his pillow. God, he hates himself.

> _sure. thanks_

And with that, he leaves, leaving Lydia alone. He mutes his phone, not wanting to hear constant buzzing from his phone. She'll give up, eventually, because that's what humans do.


End file.
